The Seal

by Adriana Koulias

  He was taken to the room of torture and at dawn his body, living still, was left outside the Temple grounds for the birds. Out of his disfigured face he saw the sun rise one last time. The light struck his eyes and once again he was one with it.

  On his lips were the words ‘It dawns and I am reborn!’

  43

  THE BISHOP OF PARIS

  What shall this man do?

  St John 21:21

  Guillaume de Baufet, Bishop of Paris, sat before his fire and stretched forth his ringed hands in a gesture so common to him that it encouraged him to calmness. I am but a common man, sitting before a fire, he thought. But he could not fool himself. He was a man living an uncommon life, set in strange and terrible times. This he admitted to himself with a grunt, feeling for his temple where the storm of a headache gathered behind his brows.

  The room was dark. Outside, the sun was setting behind the buildings of the Ile de la Cite. He waited and time passed slowly. Compline should help to ease his mind. Perhaps God would answer his questions. He sighed and played with a ring until the finger was swollen and red.

  A knock disturbed his thoughts. A monk entered, his personal attendant, Matthew of Oxford, cowl drawn. ‘Should I bring your eminence some spiced wine and your favourite fried cheese? Monsieur Julian has arrived.’

  ‘Very well, Matthew . . . but I have one of my headaches . . . and my heart is sickened. I cannot eat.’

  ‘Some wine then?’

  ‘Yes, yes, and please, send him in.’

  The monk brought the wine and two glasses from a little rosewood credenza, a gift from the King on the day of his consecration.

  ‘Not too much of this,’ said Matthew. He set the glasses down on a little table before the fire and shuffled out the door.

  A moment later the bishop’s charge entered the apartment.

  ‘Come, Julian.’ The bishop extended his hand but did not stand. ‘I am pleased to see you.’

  ‘Your Grace.’ Julian took it and bowed his head.

  ‘Sit . . . sit!’ the bishop commanded. ‘And take a glass of that wine, it is cold out, and Matthew knows the exact amount of spice. Tell me, Julian, are you well?’

  ‘Well thank you, your Grace,’ the young man answered, taking a seat opposite.

  ‘That is good . . .’ The bishop sat forward measuring his speech. ‘I have missed you, Julian.’

  ‘Have you, your Grace?’

  ‘Yes . . . I have been following your doings, you have been recording the confessions and statements made by the Templars, is that not so?’

  Julian raised his brows. ‘Yes, I have been doing so for three years now. There are hundreds of us.’

  The bishop gave a grunt. ‘Yes . . . you know that since I found you at the Temple those years ago I have loved you as my own child and have looked after your welfare to the best of my ability . . . Now you must listen to me. I know of the deep sense of loyalty you have for these men who saved you from death at Acre . . . that is a natural thing. But you can do nothing on their behalf . . . and I must urge you to caution.’

  Julian took in a breath and sat forward. ‘Do you know, your Grace, that as many as thirty-six Templars have been denied a holy burial?’

  Guillaume studied his charge. ‘I know.’

  ‘The poor wretches can do nothing in the face of their accusers. Torture and the fear of death have terrified them into silence because they are unable to accuse the King or even his legal counsellors whilst they are his prisoners.’

  ‘Be careful, Julian!’ he whispered harsh into the space between them. ‘A pyre awaits every defender of heresy. Perhaps I shall send you to Spain on an errand of some importance. In Spain things are less complicated.’

  Julian said nothing to this; he added more wine to his glass and sipped at it. ‘You are too late, your Grace, for I was present when they tortured de Molay, Grand Master of the Temple, and my signature lies at the bottom of his confession.’

  The bishop sat forward in surprise.

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You saw it?’

  ‘The brothers who died, your Grace, merely did not know what they should be confessing to.’

  There was a nervous moment between them.

  The bishop put his chin to his chest and stared at the fire. It needed cheering. He reached over and threw in a log and this brought the blaze up.

  ‘William of Paris!’ Guillaume de Baufet spat presently. ‘The Grand Inquisitor has your signature as notary upon that parchment! Your name!’ He shook his head and placed a hand over his brow. ‘He has me in his net . . .’

  ‘I was summoned, I could not refuse it.’

  ‘No . . .’ the other man said to himself, taking his glass and gulping down a measure. ‘Sometimes we live not as we would like to, Julian, but as we can. William of Paris has been awake to the possibility that I will not support Philip’s desire for a false trial, certainly I have tried to avoid these proceedings, stalling for time. I know they are innocent, but now it shall be impossible for me to swim against the tide.’ The wine glass trembled in his hand and he steadied it with the other.

  The two men contemplated the silence and the fire.

  ‘It is the case, however, that Philip Capet will have blood whatever we might do to prevent it,’ the bishop said. ‘Who shall dare to defy him? My dear Julian! My dear, dear Julian!’ the other man said, sitting forward. ‘Philip is a snake – even the Pope has retreated to Avignon to be free of him. Avignon is perfect, is it not? The King has no true jurisdiction there, but it is close enough for Clement to keep an eye on Philip Capet . . . and on the Templar goods . . .’

  ‘Are you suggesting something, your Grace?’

  ‘He shall pick the bones after Philip is done with the carcass of the Order, and there he hopes he will find something to his liking.’

  ‘I was with Pierre de Bologna today.’

  ‘The lawyer?’

  ‘It is his notion that the Archbishop of Sens is seeking to try the individuals of the Order.’

  ‘It is an accurate notion.’ The bishop looked at his charge and was full of affection, remembering how some twelve years before he had come across the dear child during a visit to the Temple. A more serious-faced and responsible boy he had never seen in all his life. Filled with a father’s urge to nurture and educate the child, he had negotiated with the Templars and had paid them well to have him as his charge. When his monks had brought the boy before him, the poor child would not speak; on his face there lay an expression that, time and again over the years, had surfaced over the delicate features, and which even now cast its shadow over the youthful face – a look of one who is weary with a life that promises to be short. ‘Listen to me, Julian,’ he said to him. ‘Philippe de Marigny, Archbishop of Sens, needs to rid himself of Templars and so he does it as much for himself as he does it for the King.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he has his nose deep into the property of the Temple. He embezzles that which the King must expect one day to be forfeit to his Crown: gold plates, chalices, jewelled crucifixes.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  The bishop sighed. ‘I am made aware of many things, my son, you forget the Templars own this church in which I live and that it has been my duty to report to the Pope regularly on Templar property held by the province of Sens. I have, therefore, an intimate knowledge of what my landlords own. When the archbishop was appointed to his position, things began to disappear, not only from the strongholds of the Notre Dame but also from the records of inventory. Completely obliterated. So I sent my spies out and what they found did not surprise me. I put two and two together and I have anticipated his next move, but I have no way of preventing it, since to discredit him is impossible. Philip would simply let him try the Templars and then he would use the man’s dishonesty as a pretext for taking all the goods from the hands of the Church, landing them straight in his coffers. You see? I am more alone than a sheep in the wilderness.
’

  The bishop turned away; the wine suddenly tasted sour. ‘Perhaps these men are like Job whom God tests with all manner of evil to know their continence, and we are perhaps playing the part of Satan . . . And as Satan tortured Job, we torture the Templar knights, taking everything of value from them, pouring them out as milk, and curdling them like cheese! Have they not cried out, “Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said there is a man child conceived!”’ The Bishop of Paris calmed himself, his fingers pressing into his temples. ‘Tomorrow I shall sit on the provincial council along with six suffragan bishops, and at the behest of the newly appointed Archbishop of Sens all of us will turn our backs on the Temple.’

  Julian stared hard at the fire. ‘As metropolitans of Sens you may be Marigny’s men, but there is still the vote.’

  ‘Yes, but I am only one of seven, and the others are either afraid or corrupt. The plan is brilliant of course, to set up a council with the Pope’s blessing, whose purpose is to anticipate the papal commission’s own finding because once the individual Templars are pronounced guilty, it will be easier to prove the culpability of the entire Order. The papal commission is even now becoming complacent because it knows its work is superfluous. Marigny’s parallel trial will be swift and will take little notice of legality.’

  ‘But the commission offered them immunity. Here in your garden five hundred of them were prepared to believe it!’ He set down his glass.

  ‘Yes, and they shall be condemned to burn for it.’

  The young man stood with the light from the fire playing at his clothes. ‘This morning Gilles Aicelin chaired an extraordinary hearing of the commission – perhaps he shall listen to Pierre de Bologna and prevent the provincial council from condemning the Templars before he has had a chance to question them.’

  Guillaume looked down and his throat was suddenly dry. ‘Gilles walked out in the middle of the hearing, giving some excuse about celebrating the mass. As far as I know he has not returned to the commission. He has gone back to Philip like a dog to his vomit.’

  Julian’s face lost its colour. He stood motionless for a time, looking into the fire with his fists clenched. ‘I have had a part in this!’ he said to himself.

  The Bishop of Paris was puzzled. ‘What do you mean, a part in it?’

  Julian shook his head. ‘I have aided their communication . . .’

  The bishop was aghast. ‘You? Did you not see the trap to which you were being directed?’

  But his words were not heard, for Julian had walked out of the apartment.

  THE SIXTH CARD

  CHARIOT, DANGER

  44

  THE BURNING

  ‘Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord . . .

  Revelation 14:13

  Paris, 12 May 1310

  On the Tuesday after the feast day of St Nicholas fifty-four Templars were condemned as relapsed heretics.

  ‘These Templars of the province of Sens,’ began the Archbishop of Sens, ‘have confessed to the inquisitors, have sought forgiveness and have been led through the path of penance and reconciliation back into the bosom of the Church, whose mercy knows no bounds. But like those perverted Cathars of the south, these men have not confessed willingly, but cunningly, for their humility and contrition is a shallow beast which hides beneath it a heart despoiled by heresy. But it is well known that the heart of such men is never hidden long from the eyes of godly men, since sooner or later such men seek to defend their heresy by denying wrongdoing. Such men are recognisable by these signs and are beyond the absolution and care of the Church. We can no longer stain our hands with their sin, instead we must sorrowfully follow canon law, which dictates that all impenitents are to be turned over to the officials of the royal court, whose task it is to put such men to death by fire.’ He ended with a regal yawn.

  Julian had relayed the message to the papal commission at St Eloi that the men would be taken to their punishment that day, and an hour after prime the answer that had been as much anticipated as expected, returned by way of Julian, who was accompanied by de Voet, the royal jailer, and Amisius, Archdeacon of Orleans.

  He forwarded to the Archbishop of Sens the details of Sunday’s appeal by the Templar lawyer, Pierre de Bologna, and the other three procurators. The papal commission argued that many Templars had stated at the point of death that their Order was pure and that the charges against it were false. If this were true, to burn the Templars precipitately was to obstruct the work of the papal commission.

  The Archbishop of Sens, dressed in his own importance, thin with a long doubtful face and small darkling eyes, shook his head. ‘We can do nothing more . . . Fiat iustitia – justice shall be done!’

  Now as the Bishop of Paris’s carriage drove through the porte Saint Antoine he reflected at the speed of the judgement. There had been no pretence of legality, no reviewing of evidence, and no witnesses were summoned. A judgement had been ascertained before he and the other suffragans had even warmed their seats in council, for even before the judgement had fallen, the prisoners had been divided into classifications, with the recalcitrant brothers placed in chains and repaired to waiting wagons that would take them to their execution.

  His carriage rode to the convent of Saint Antoine des Champs outside the city walls on the road to Meaux. The convent was a huge fortified complex, with buttressed walls and a large deep moat, surrounded by agricultural lands, orchards and vineyards. The sky was hung with clouds that scattered over the horizon. The sun slanted noon. The heat bore down and the bishop, dressed in the regalia of his investiture, could feel its piercing hands.

  People were making their way toward a spot past the mill of St Antoine, in the fields between it and the abbey. There, a crowd of citizens had gathered. Tradesmen, charlatans, pickpockets, people selling produce and wares made a wide circle around a wagon overflowing with brothers of the Order. Two guards were releasing four horses from their bridles whilst another was piling faggots and straw beneath the wagon.

  The Bishop of Paris alighted from his carriage. His round, richly dressed figure was immediately recognised as he pushed past the crowds. He reached the scene as the guards set the straw alight.

  Guillaume de Baufet stood before the spectacle, breathless, staining his sacerdotal robes with perspiration, his eyes wide and incredulous. ‘My Lord,’ he whispered under his breath, ‘there is no time even to erect a stake!’

  The flames began to lick sluggishly at the floor of the wagons, and the men inside cried out.

  ‘We are innocent! We have done nothing!’

  The crowd was quiet. There were no jeers or insults, just a deathly silence. Even the merchants and hawkers were paused.

  ‘Save us!’ cried one man. The bishop recognised him – it was Laurent de Beaune, Preceptor of Mormant from the diocese of Langogne. ‘For the glory of Christ we die!’

  ‘We have not had the sacraments!’ wailed another. ‘Lord protect us!’ he gasped and went down on bended knee.

  ‘Gloria in excelsis deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bon voluntatis! ’ The Templar priest, William de Landres, whom the bishop also recognised from the trials, recited the gloria. ‘Laudamus te Benedicimus Adoremus te. Glorificamus te. Gratia agimus tibi propter magnam gloriam tuam.’

  The fire rose upward and began to brush the sides of the wagon and heat was coming through the floor causing the men, crowded upon the wagon, to scramble over one another to get away from it, but there was no escape.

  A man stepped out from the crowd and shouted at the circle of armed men, ‘There is not enough straw!’

  The smell of burning hair sulphurous and rank and the odour of sizzling flesh mingled with the cries and screams of terror.

  ‘More straw!’ the crowd called out, moving towards the wagons.

  The Templars danced to escape the flames, pleading and praying, calling for help. Peasants began to throw under the pyre straw and faggots that lay unused upon the ground.

  The guar
ds themselves, comprehending that an inadequacy of flame could occasion a late lunch, reached for more fuel, and soon guards and commoners were aiding each other in piling what they could around the wagons. Promptly, the flames obeyed, reaching higher. The men would not die of the smoke, however. They would observe in horror as their flesh dissipated, melted to reveal the cavities of their bodies gnawed by conflagration.

  It seemed to take a long time before each man in his turn fell into the flames and the field was quiet again with only the sound of the fire crackling and spurting. From it the Bishop of Paris averted his eyes, not wishing to see more.

  When the wagons and bones were reduced to dust and what would not burn was taken away so that no relic could be collected of the martyrs, the crowd, a little sombre, dispersed, anticipating its midday meal, leaving the bishop alone, his mind a blank.

  45

  ATONEMENT

  . . . thou art lukewarm and neither cold nor hot . . .

  Revelation 3:16

  18 May 1310

  Julian woke early. He dressed in his capa and repaired to the church to attend lauds. Present at that canonical hour was Gilles Aicelin, the Archbishop of Narbonne, who had walked out on Pierre de Bologna and his appeal before the commission.

  When the service was ended and the brothers had filed silently out of the church, Julian approached him and drew him into the shadows.

  ‘Your Grace,’ Julian said, ‘grave and serious matters have come to my notice, matters of importance to you that cannot wait.’

  The man stood with his shoulders hunched, his skin translucent, his eyes pale and vacant. ‘You are the bishop’s charge?’ He squinted. ‘A notary for the trials?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace.’

  The archbishop raised a quizzical brow and, yawning, responded, ‘You realise that I must attend the commission today and you are keeping me from it? Stand aside.’ He began to push him out of the way. ‘Today, we shall hear Renaud de Provins give his testimony . . . and if he is anything like Aimery de Villiers, whom we saw only days ago, he will tell us that he killed the Lord if he thinks it is required of him . . .’